A Bride At Birralee. Barbara HannayЧитать онлайн книгу.

      CHAPTER ONE

      SOMEONE was coming.

      Callum Roper slouched against a veranda post and glared at the distant cloud of dust. In the outback, dust travelling at that speed meant one thing—a vehicle heading this way.

      He wasn’t in the mood for visitors.

      Turning his back on the view, he lowered his long body into a deep canvas chair and snapped the top off a beer. He took a deep swig and scowled. Truth was, he wasn’t in the mood for anything much these days! Even beer didn’t taste the same.

      ‘Why’d you have to do it, Scotty?’

      He hadn’t meant to ask the question out loud, but there it was, lingering like the dust on the hot, still air. Why did you have to go and die? Damn you, Scotty.

      Taking another, deeper swig, he grimaced. How long did it last, this grief business? His younger brother had been dead for six weeks now and he still felt as raw and hurt as he had the day the helicopter crashed and he’d first glimpsed Scott’s lifeless body in the cockpit.

      Slumping lower in the canvas seat, he reached for the cattle dog at his side and rubbed the soft fur between its ears, willing himself to relax. But a picture of Scott’s sun-streaked curls, laughing brown eyes and cheeky grin swam before him. It was the face of an irrepressible larrikin. And it had gone for ever.

      Late afternoons like this were the worst. This was the time of day he and Scott used to sit here on the veranda, having a beer and a yarn. His brother had been such damn good company. Drinking alone without Scott’s humorous recounts of their day wasn’t any kind of fun.

      He cast a bitter glance over his shoulder towards the encroaching vehicle. Entertaining visitors without Scott’s easy banter would be hell!

      Luckily, cars didn’t foray into these parts very often. Birralee Station was beyond Cloncurry in far north-western Queensland, further outback than most people liked to venture.

      But this particular cloud of dust was definitely edging closer down the rust-red track. He could hear the motor now and it sounded tinny, not the throaty roar of the off-road vehicles his neighbours used.

      Surely no one with any sense would come all the way out here in a flimsy little city sedan? City visitors were even worse than well-meaning neighbours.

      Scott had been the one for the city. He’d always been flying off to Sydney or Brisbane to seek out fun and female company. Callum was content to stick to the bush, restricting his socialising to picnic races and parties on surrounding properties. He’d never felt the urge to go chasing off to the city.

      Almost never. His hand tightened around the beer can as a reluctant memory forced him to acknowledge that there had been one city woman he’d wanted to chase. A woman with crow black hair, a haunting, sexy voice and a gutsy, shoulders-back attitude. He’d wanted to chase her, catch her and brand her as his.

      But his little brother had always had the happy knack of smiling at a girl in a certain way and rendering her smitten. Instantly. Accepting that the woman he’d desired had preferred Scott had been a bitter lesson.

      Hell! What was the use of sitting here, thinking about all that again?

      Callum jumped to his feet and frowned as he realised the car had stopped. He squinted at the stretch of bushland before him, searching for the tell-tale dust. Late afternoon sun lent a bronze glow to the paddocks of pale Mitchell grass, but there was no sign of movement. The cloudless sky, the trees and grass, even the cattle, were as still as a painting.

      Crossing to the edge of the veranda, he stood listening. All he could hear now was the high, keening call of a black falcon as it circled above the cliff on the far side of the creek.

      He frowned. By his calculations, the car had been close to the creek crossing. Perhaps the driver had stopped to check the water’s depth before fording the shallow stream.

      Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on the veranda railing and listened, watched and waited.

      A good five minutes or more passed before the engine started up again. But when it did, it screamed and strained. Then there was silence again, before another useless burst from the motor.

      ‘Silly sod’s got himself bogged.’ He listened for a few more minutes. There was more high-pitched whirring from the straining motor. More silence.

      Shaking his head, he let out a heavy sigh. The last thing he felt like was playing hero to some uninvited city slicker, but he could hardly ignore the fact that someone seemed to be having car trouble so close to his homestead.

      He had no choice. Cursing softly, he loped down the front steps and across the gravel drive to his ute.

      Stella knew she was bogged. She was down to her axle in loose pebbles and sand in the middle of the outback—the middle of nowhere—and she was sick as a dog, more miserable than a lost puppy.

      Another